Georgie-Porgie, Puddin' and Pie
by Carole C
Summary: Inugami AU: A sequel to 'Georgie-Porgie, Sammy and Me' set a few months later when George is all grown up. Even though Sam and Dean think they're long out of the family business, Trouble still knows their address. But really, with an inugami in the living room, why are they surprised when another case drops into their laps? No warnings, no spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

**Georgie-Porgie, Puddin' and Pie**

"George, what have you got?" Sam held out his hand to his dog.

George trotted over and deposited a pair of sunglasses into Sam's palm.

"Hey, great!" Sam's therapist took the glasses. "Where did you find these, George? I lost them last week." Robin playfully set the tie-dyed shades on George's nose and laughed.

Sam was surprised when George didn't paw them right back off. In fact, George looked from him to Robin with a wide canine grin then strutted around the therapy room. He was obviously enjoying the new tint the glasses gave his world, and his reflection in the mirrors, too.

"You've made my dog vain," Sam scolded Robin, a grin hidden in his voice.

"Nah, he already knew he's hot stuff. The glasses just enhance his latent awesomeness to blinding proportions."

"His future's so bright…" Sam sing-songed. His chuckle morphed into a grunt as he forced out one last rep from his aching, maimed leg.

"So's yours, y'know." Robin eyed him with professional assessment. She helped him back to the bench and handed him his shoes. "I think you can escape my fiendish torture chamber for good now."

Sam paused in the midst of pulling them on. "You don't think I need any more sessions?"

She sat down beside him on the bench. "I think we've gone as far as we can with professional physical therapy. You've proven that you're willing to push yourself hard on your own. You can still make improvements if you keep up your exercises, but you don't really need me anymore."

Her brightness seemed to ring a bit hollow. Sam realized his own expected elation was more than a little lacking in the enthusiasm department. For all the physical unpleasantness, he'd grown to look forward to his therapy appointments. No, to be honest, not to the therapy, but to Robin.

"Hey." Robin laid a hand on his arm and gave him a little smile. "Firing your physical therapist is a good thing."

Sam finished tying his shoes then reached for his cane. When he was safely on his feet again, he looked down at her and decided what the heck. Life, as he well knew, was short and unpredictable. So why not go for it?

"If you're not my therapist any longer, we also no longer have a professional relationship, right?" he asked.

She cocked her head, and he could tell she didn't quite know how to take that question. "Well, no, not precisely. But I'm still bound by privacy laws and professional ethics. Things like that."

"Would those lingering ethics prevent you from considering a date with a former client?" Sam asked.

Robin's expression brightened to a happy smile. "No, they would not. Is that a hypothetical question, Mr. Relf?"

"Only if you're going to shoot me down for asking, Ms. Rutledge," he grinned back.

"You're in luck. I left my heavy ammunition at home in my other purse."

"Great. Will the cease-fire last long enough for you to have dinner with me tomorrow night?"

"I'm almost certain it will," she teased, her eyes sparkling.

"Pick you up at seven and take my chances?"

"You're a brave man, Sam. This might earn you a medal of valor," Robin chuckled. She turned and quickly wrote her address and phone number on a note pad and handed him the page.

Sam tucked it into his shirt pocket. "See you then, Robin. George, time to go, buddy."

George trotted up to him and plopped into an informal sit at his feet.

"Give Robin back her sunglasses," Sam prompted. George wilted.

"Awww, Sam. Let him keep them." She laughed. "I lose every pair I own, so I always buy cheap ones. Besides, they look a lot better on him than on me."

"Not sure I agree with that, but thanks," Sam smiled. "Tell Robin thank-you, George."

George looked up at her, doggy-grinning beneath the colorful sunglasses, and gave two short, sharp barks.

"You're welcome!" Robin giggled. She looked back at Sam. "You could get him on that pet tricks show, y'know."

"Then he'd be so vain his glasses wouldn't fit any more." Sam gave her a wink.

-oOo-

Dean was more than glad to face a solo evening. After all, it had been so long since his brother had a date that Dean couldn't even bring himself to rib Sam about it. Much, anyway.

Besides, after a week of over-time, working construction in the middle of a muggy, sweltering Chicago heat-wave, Dean looked forward to a night vegetating in front of the tube with a beer and a pizza with more anticipation than he was comfortable admitting even to himself. Before he found the remote, probably almost before Sam got down to the parking garage, George started whimpering, pacing the living room.

"Sorry, buddy. He ditched us. It's what happens when a woman enters the picture. Better get used to it."

George paused just long enough to look up at him, woebegone abandonment in every line of his furry little body. He turned with another whimper and trotted to check out the bathroom and Sam's bedroom, just in case. When he came back into the living room, he was panting and whining. He went and scratched at the front door.

"Cut that out!" Dean snapped. "You mess up that door we lose our damage deposit. Come over here and settle down. I'll even let you pick the first show."

George took one more sniff along the crack the bottom of the door, then made his way over to Dean's chair with lethargic steps, paws dragging the worn carpet.

"My heart bleeds," Dean told him.

George hopped up beside him in the chair and Dean offered the oversized remote. "Just, please, George—only one episode of _Dog Whisperer_ tonight, ok?"

George ignored the clicker, tucking his nose beneath a foreleg with a huffed sigh.

"Whatever." Dean leaned back and ran the channels. A few minutes later, he shoved the dog back down onto the floor. "If you can't lie still, go get on the couch."

George trotted off instead. He came back with those gaudy, ridiculous sunglasses precariously balanced on his nose, one earpiece still folded. He held his leash in his mouth. He went to the door and waited, tail wagging hopefully.

Dean carefully ignored him.

George thoughtfully waited till a commercial break, then barked and laid his paw on the door, patting this time instead of scratching.

Dean rose. George's tail wagged faster. Dean passed right on by, heading for the kitchen. George drooped.

"I'm tired. We're staying home," Dean called over his shoulder as he got a beer out of the fridge.

George barked again, a shrill, desperate sound. He panted and circled in front of the door, his leash clip rattling across the floor boards. He even humped his back as he waddled.

"Dude, come on, since when? If you have to take a dump, go use the toilet like always. And flush this time, for cripe's sake."

Foiled again, George gave up his bowel-emergency ruse, spat out his leash, threw back his head and howled. His glasses fell off.

"Jeez, dog! Sam will be back by morning, latest. Deal with it."

George darted away into Sam's room.

"Stay in there, you neurotic little freak," Dean muttered.

George came back a half hour later, dragging his toy basket. Dean didn't bother glancing over as George tipped it over and began pawing through the contents. At least the dog was quiet and occupied.

"OW! What the _hell_?" Dean rubbed his nipped calf and glared at George.

George growled and stomped his forepaws behind a short line of blocks. OUTNOW

"You fuzzy little asshat!" Dean kicked the blocks across the floor and flopped back into his chair. "I wouldn't take you out now even if you were about to crap on the rug."

George raged at him like a pocket-sized Cujo.

"Right back at 'cha, freak." He turned up the volume.

George rooted through his toys again. Dean tried to ignore the dog's existence entirely.

"SonuvaBITCH!" Dean jerked his pants leg up, certain he was going to see blood. He didn't, but a clear imprint of George's teeth reddened his skin. He cocked a kick towards the dog.

The motion suspended in mid-swing. George had edited his demand.

SAMDANGEROUTNOW


	2. Chapter 2

**_One Hour Earlier_**

Robin lived on a neat block of rowhouses. As much as he resisted using the thing, Sam was grateful tonight for his handicapped tag that allowed him to park close enough to her place to not set his leg off before the evening even began.

Her apartment was on the second floor. Sam rang the bell and after a moment Robin opened the door. She was shoeless, a comb in her hand and her dress half unzipped.

"Come on in, and please, make yourself at home," she offered, her face flushing. "I am so sorry I'm late. It's like this place is conspiring against me tonight. The plumbing's acting up, the closet door jammed till I thought I was going to have to use an ax to ever see my clothes again—and now this darn zipper's stuck. I can't get it up and I can't get it down enough to get out of the darn thing. I'm ready to grab scissors and cut myself out!"

Sam tried to look more sympathetic than amused. "That'd be a shame. It's pretty on you. Want me to give it a try?"

"Please," she sighed. "If it's truly stuck, maybe you can cut along the zipper? I can replace that, no kidding." She turned her back to him and lifted her hair out of the way.

Sam drew in a breath at the sight of creamy skin framed by the dark blue dress and a glimpse of lacy bra strap. He wasn't a testosterone-riddled teenager anymore, but damn—how long _had_ it been? Shoving that line of thought back down into a deep dark mental box, Sam tugged on the jeweled pull, fingertips behind it to protect Robin from an accidental pinch.

The zipper moved up one smooth inch and then stuck again. He tugged until he was afraid he was going to rip something. Sam frowned. "I don't see why it's hanging up. There's nothing stuck in it and the teeth look fine."

"Blast—and it's a new dress, too." Robin peered over her shoulder at him. "If you can get it down, I'll change. We're not going to miss a reservation or anything, are we?"

"No, we've still got some time," Sam assured her. It was quickly evident that the zipper was more stubborn about going down than it had been about going up.

"Time for the scissors," Robin sighed.

"One sec—" Sam tried pulling the tab up again, thinking that maybe if it would go up a bit, it might free the thing to go down.

The pull slid all the way to the top with no resistance at all.

"It worked?" Robin blurted.  
"Yeah, no trouble at all. Must just be a bad spot in it," Sam answered as he closed the tiny hook and eye at the top of the placket.

Robin turned to him with pink cheeks and an impish smile. "Thank goodness. I was a little uncomfortable with the thought of you getting me out of my clothes on the first date."

"Undressing a woman with scissors isn't my style regardless," Sam answered with his own flush and a laugh.

"Yeah, unless you're Edward Scissorhands, that's kinda a creepy scenario—Shoes!" Robin blurted, and darted off towards the back of the apartment.

"Even more creepy if I was!" Sam called after her with a chuckle, and glanced around the living room. It was small, but airy and somehow feminine without being frilly. Sam was drawn to the bookcase, curious about what Robin liked to read.

Most of it was nonfiction, medical texts relating to her work, mixed in with a random selection of other subjects. There were a row of familiar paperbacks taking up part of one shelf. He pulled one part way out and his nose wrinkled in disgust at the cover image of the blond, shirtless Thor wannabe who bore his name.

"Awkward," he muttered under his breath and slid the odious thing back into its space. He heard the click of heels behind him, but before he turned, Robin let out a stifled squeal.

Sam spun. She was pale, her eyes wide over the hand clamped over her mouth.

"What is it? What's wrong?" He stepped closer and she took a step back.

"Your jacket!" she gasped. "The back of your jacket!"

Sam frowned in confusion, and reached behind him. He felt torn cloth and wetness. His fingertips came back stained with red. "What the hell?"

Sam shucked his suit jacket like it was on fire and turned it around. 'GET OUT' was slashed across the back, edged in what looked and smelled like blood. His shirt underneath was unmarked, so it wasn't his.

"Uh, Robin—is there something you ought to tell me?" He held the ruined jacket out at arm's length.

Robin's lips trembled. "I… I thought it was over!"

Sam tossed the ruined jacket over the back of a chair and led Robin to the couch. He kept her hand in his as they sat down. "It's ok. Trust me, whatever you tell me, I'll believe you."

"I told myself it wasn't real. I made myself believe I was a little crazy," she whispered, casting a fearful, quick glance over at Sam's jacket, as if it were a tiger crouched across the room. "But that… there's no way I could have done that in some kind of delusional break. I couldn't have, could I?"

"No," Sam told her, his voice soft but firm. "No. There is no way you did this yourself."

He squeezed her hands gently. "Robin, have you ever heard of—?"

Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket with the staccato rhythm that meant 'Pick up RIGHT NOW!'

He flinched. "I'm sorry, I have to answer this. It's an emergency."

Robin nodded. Sam stood as he drew his phone out.

Dean's voice burst through the speaker the instant Sam hit the answer-key. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. What's wrong?" Sam scowled at the edge of urgent anxiety in Dean's voice. It was a sound he'd never wanted to hear again.

"George is freaking out. He says you're in danger." Dean's voice lowered, muffled, as if he'd turned away from the phone. "Hear that? He's fine, you psycho hairball. I oughta-"

A short scream from Robin interrupted the conversation on both sides.

"Uh, Dean?" Sam eyed his jacket as it slithered across the floor as if trying to slink away unnoticed. "He may be onto something. Grab the stash and head over here. I think Robin's got a vengeful."

"You gotta be kiddin' me. Really?"

"Dude, I am watching my suit jacket crawl up under an armoire."

"That is no kind of right," Dean agreed. "I'm on my way."

Sam dropped his phone back into his pocket and knelt beside Robin. She'd drawn her legs up under her and was staring at the dark space under the armoire as if Sam was no longer in the room.

"Robin?" When she didn't respond, Sam tapped her cheek. "Robin!"

She squeaked and flinched, but her eyes focused on his then. "Sam, I swear I don't know why this is happening!"

"That's ok. I do, I think. Do you have any good salt, like kosher or sea salt?"

"Yeah, in the kitchen beside the range. A couple of bottles."

"Come with me." Sam rose and held out his hand. Robin took it, and as she hurried beside his lame rush, she glanced around as if the walls had eyes.

It was a hyper-alertness that was all too familiar. "Why are you staying here with this thing harassing you?" he asked.

"Running is pointless. It's already followed me twice."

"Are you sure it's the same entity?" Sam grabbed a couple of bottles off the shelf by the stove. One held sea salt, the other was full of some weird pink salt that claimed to be from the Himalayas. Whatever, so long as it was as natural as the label declared it to be, it would work.

"Very sure," she whispered, clinging to his hand as if they were in raging surf

Sam led her back into the living room. He stopped at the couch and flung a handful of salt under it, just to be on the safe side. "Here, get comfortable. I'm going to make a circle around us. Nothing can get past it as long as the salt line isn't broken, so stay put no matter what you see or hear."

She tucked her legs back up onto the couch, but now she was looking at him in much the same way she'd stared at his wandering suit jacket. "I don't know whether to be relieved that you don't think I'm crazy, or to be scared that you're as crazy as I am."

Her shaky smile shattered into terror. "Look out!"

Sam turned just in time to block a flying book with his forearm. The heavy text fluttered on the floor like a dying bird as Sam closed the salt line and stepped inside its protection. "How long has this been going on?"

"Two years," she stammered, shrinking into a tight ball in the corner of the sofa. "But it's never been this bad before!"

"Well, I seem to bring out the best in everyone I meet," Sam said as he made himself comfortable beside her. "It's the family curse."

She scooted to his side and Sam put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "It's going to be ok, Robin, I promise." Sam gave her a hug. "Tell me about how this all started."

"I never had any weird stuff happen to me before two years ago," she began, her voice shaky. "I didn't even believe in ghosts or the monster under the bed when I was a kid. Never afraid of the dark…" She broke off with a little squeak as something smashed in the kitchen.

"Ignore it," Sam advised her, his voice calm and even. "It uses fear like a battery."

Her eyes widened again, but not with fear he was relieved to see. "How do you _know_ this stuff?"

"Your story first," he smiled. "We'll save mine for the second date."

"So the first one's making you want to come back for more? You are crazy," she teased and then winced again as something invisible scraped across the floor just beyond their salt line.

"Nah, you've made a better first impression than you could ever imagine," Sam chuckled.

Something fell in her bedroom that shook the whole apartment. "Now _that_ made an impression," Robin muttered under her breath. "Can a ghost cough up a damage deposit, you think?"

"Sadly, most of them no longer have access to their bank accounts," he answered with a smile. She really was making one hell of an impression, able to calm down and even joke while something unseen and vicious threw a tantrum all around her. "Since I'm not hearing approaching sirens, I take it your neighbors aren't home?"

She shook her head. "The top apartment's empty and the neighbors below are on vacation."

Sam tracked the trajectory of a potpourri bowl as it sailed past and smashed behind them against the wall. "Surely you haven't put up with stunts like this for two years?"

She shook her head. "Oh no, nothing like this. In fact, at first it was friendly... almost comforting, I guess, in a weird way. Like having a roommate I couldn't see. I never felt like I was alone, and I wasn't afraid. Not for a long time, not once during the first year."

"How did it start?"

"It was at my first apartment," she answered. "I never had a single thought about ghosts or anything like that, even though as I was moving in, one of the neighbors stopped by and told me the building was supposedly haunted. I just thought she was senile, or playing a joke on me. Like I said, never believed in anything scary even as a kid, never played with an Ouija board or anything that's supposed to open you up to 'the other side,' whatever that is. Nothing unexplainable at all ever happened to me, until after the home invasion."

Sam felt his eyes narrow. "You were attacked?"

Robin shuddered, then shook her head. "No, thank God. I woke up as the creep was coming in my bedroom window. I screamed, he got tangled up in the curtains or something, and fell backwards out the window. Broke his leg in three places."

"Good!" Sam interjected. Too bad it wasn't his neck, was the rest of the thought he kept to himself.

"Yeah, well, obviously the police had no problem picking him up. I got an alarm system and was a lot more careful about locking my windows after that." She sighed. "That's when… stuff… started happening. Little things at first, like I'd be looking for something I misplaced and then it would show up in plain sight in the middle of the coffee table or on the kitchen counter."

"Not coincidence or absent-mindedness?" Sam spread his hands. "Sorry, I have to ask."

"I thought so, at first. I even thought stuff moving around was only vibration from traffic or the trains or the neighbors, y'know? Always a rational explanation. Until the violets."

"Violets? Ok, that's a new one on me."

"Not so new as you'd think," she said with a lifted eyebrow. "That's what really rattled me and made me realize I wasn't just brain-fogging from stress. It started when I caught the bouquet at a friend's wedding. It was made of purple hothouse violets. When I got home, I was putting them into a vase and I said—out loud, just talking to myself, you know—that it was a shame that such beautiful flowers had no scent."

She looked towards the kitchen again as something pattered across the tile like a swath of hailstones. "There goes the garbanzos… anyway, the next morning when I woke up, there was the most lovely fragrance in the house. I tracked it down to the living room."

Robin's hand tightened on Sam's and her voice took on an edge of strain again. "The wedding flowers were wilted on the floor, and the vase was stuffed full of these double violets with an incredibly sweet perfume. I'd never seen anything like them, and my Dad ran a florist shop all my life. I looked them up. They were Parma violets. Sam, nobody in the US—almost nobody in the _world_—grows Parma violets anymore. Not since the 1800's. The doors and windows were locked, I swear, and the alarm was set! Nobody could have walked through the living room without setting off the motion detector. I had the alarm company come out and check it. I did!"

"It's ok. I believe you, trust me. I've seen a lot weirder," Sam said. "The entity escalated after that?" he prompted softly when she didn't go on.

She nodded. "Nothing like this. Nothing ever like this. But yeah, it escalated, slowly. The day I was hugged, though, I grabbed my purse and ran out. I didn't go back in, I paid for movers to pack everything up. Everything was quiet and calm for a little while in the new place, but as soon as I had all the boxes unpacked, it started up again. It was playful again at first, but it started acting more and more like a bully after Gregor moved in."

_GET OUT! ROBIN GET OUT! GET OOUUUT!_

"SHUT UP!" Robin shrieked at the top of her own voice. "I'm not running from you anymore, you hateful-!"

A pounding on the door drowned out whatever insult Robin hurled. This time, the noise came from outside. The knob rattled. "SAM!"

"We're ok!" Sam yelled back. "Stay here," he admonished Robin and stepped over the salt line. It was only about three limping strides to the front door, but he still had to duck a book and dodge an ottoman on the way.

_GET OOUUT!_

The disembodied shout right in front of him made his ears ring as his jacket landed against the back of his head. Sam twisted the knob, tried to turn the deadbolt, but it was as if the door had been welded shut. "We can't get out while you're blocking the door, you stupid sonuvabitch!"

"SAM!" Dean kicked the door.

The door slammed inward with far more force than Dean's kick supplied.

Sam landed flat on his back with his brother crashing down on top of him.

George barreled right over the top of them both to viciously attack nothing at all, chasing that nothingness into the bedroom.

The bedroom door slammed, only slightly muffling the sound of ferocious canine combat.

"Gas!" Dean blurted.

"What?" Sam wheezed, almost soundless as he shoved at Dean.

"Hallway's full of gas!" Dean rolled to his feet, hauling Sam onto his with frantic strength. "Get out! Get the hell out!"

The bedroom door burst open again, halting abruptly just before the iron doorknob struck the brick wall. George rolled out like a furry bowling ball, then grabbed Sam's trouser leg and tugged maniacally towards the front door.

"Yeah—going!" Sam told him, hobbling through the door.

"There's supposed to be alarms!" Robin slapped his cane into Sam's hand.

"Obviously on the fritz!" Dean coughed and the four of them ran as fast as they could down the outer stairs, holding their breaths till they were on the street.

Dean had left the Impala double-parked. Sam all but threw Robin inside. George made a personal best leap straight in through the window. Sam and Dean hit the front seat in the same synchronized second and they peeled off.

Before they were a block away, Robin was dialing 911.


	3. Chapter 3

**_One Week Later_**

"Gotta say, this was amazing." Dean grinned as he leaned back in his chair.

Sam laid his napkin beside his plate and smiled at Robin. "Amazing hardly covers it. You didn't have to go to all this trouble for us, but wow—"

She laughed. "Come on. You guys rescued me and even better, came back and helped me clean up the huge mess. I owe you both more than a home-cooked dinner."

"Speaking of the mess, how's things been with…?" Dean gave a low whistle and circled his finger at the general atmosphere.

"Amos? Oh, he's been very quiet. Not a moan or a thump since the all-clear."

"He told you his name?" Sam's eyebrows rose.

Robin flushed, and gave a soft giggle. "No. But 'Amos' popped into my head in the middle of the night, and it seemed to fit."

"Do you think he's gone?" Dean asked.

"No. I can't explain why, but…" Robin sighed. "I think he's still around, but keeping quiet."

"Probably recharging. He burned through one heck of a lot of energy that night," Sam said. "Don't get your hopes up that he's mellowed out."

"Offer stands," Dean assured her. "Any time you want us to send him into the Great White Light, just say the word."

"Yeah, about that," Robin said, toying with her fork. "I've been doing a lot of thinking about how Amos has manifested himself, trying to put my fear aside and work it all through objectively. I know this may sound arrogant, but I don't think any of his nastier tricks were meant to frighten _me._"

Dean and Sam exchanged a glance. "The first time he showed himself was after you were attacked, right?" Sam asked.

"Actually," Robin said, "Thinking back on it carefully, it may have been during the break-in." She straightened and looked steadily from one of them to the other. "Guys, I don't think that intruder fell backwards out of the window because he was a stupid klutz. I'm almost certain now that he was pushed."

"What makes you think that?" Sam asked.

"Trust me, those few minutes are burned into my brain. I can run that tape over and over," she chuffed. "Look, I'm sure you've both gone off balance and fallen backwards at least once in your lives, right?"

Sam and Dean exchanged another glance, a wry one this time.

"That would be a safe assumption," Dean drawled.

"Well, here's the deal. When you fall, almost always your reflexes cause you to try to catch yourself somehow. You sway, flail your arms, you know."

The brothers nodded.

"That guy? He folded over and flew backwards out that window like he'd been yanked from behind with a rope—or slammed really hard in the gut."

"Ok, so your homie Amos suckerpunched that sleazebag. One huge brownie point for the spook. But Sam told me he's been terrorizing you for the past year." Dean frowned.

"That was what you said, wasn't it?" Sam added, "That you hadn't been afraid until this year?"

"Oh, I was plenty scared," she agreed, eyes widening. "But see, looking back on it—I realized that none of what happened was aimed at me. I was just… a terrified bystander. My boyfriend at the time, Gregor, he was the focus of it all."

"Was Gregor abusive?" Sam asked, very gently. Dean looked down at his empty plate, trying to give the other two some conversational privacy without actually leaving the room.

Robin bit her lower lip and shrugged. "Gregor was… difficult. Volatile. After we'd been together a while, it escalated till I felt as if I was living in the eye of a hurricane. He never threatened me, but he still managed to keep me off balance and nervous all the time."

"Emotional abuse," Sam gritted.

"I suppose so," Robin almost whispered.

"And that's when Casper started getting nasty?" Dean interjected.

"No, not right at first. Not till the day after Hoosier died."

"Hoosier?" Sam blinked.

"My cat. Long story on the name." A weak smile flickered and faded. "Not important now. Anyway, Hoosier was very old and feeble. When he died, I thought it was his time to go, you know, but now—" She shuddered. "Amos started getting mean right after that. Mean towards Gregor, not me. I'm thinking Gregor might have done something to Hoosier. Gregor hated Hoosier, even thought all the poor baby did by then was lie in the sun and sleep."

"Wow. That's low," Dean murmured.

Robin nodded and wiped her hand over her eyes and breathed out a shaky sigh. "It was as if Gregor was jealous of any attention I paid to anything but him. Anyway, after that, things got worse and worse, with Amos and with Gregor. Finally, I packed up and left. When I moved in here, everything was quiet. I thought my haunting was over. Obviously, it wasn't."

She sighed again. "I never had any real reason to be afraid. I was only misinterpreting motive."

"Understandable considering the guy's not exactly a subtle communicator," Sam commented.

"Yeah, dude—try scrawling what you need to say in lipstick on the mirrors or something next time," Dean said over his shoulder. "Way less property damage and the message gets through quicker."

There was a soft thwack from the living room, and a playful bark from George. The three hurried through the doorway. George was rolling on something as gleefully as if it were a dead squirrel.

"What have you got, boy?" Sam retrieved the object. A paperback book. 'Supernatural' was the title.

Dean would have preferred a dead squirrel. "Oh man, not those again."

"I take it you're not a fan?" Robin asked, playful challenge in her voice. She took the book from Sam and put it back on the shelf.

"Not exactly," Sam answered for him. Another book slowly slipped out of place. Sam caught it before it fell to the floor. The cover pictured a woman aflame, with a peaceful, almost beatific expression on her face, the word 'Home' above. Sam didn't lift his eyes from it, his voice low as he spoke. "Uh, remember how I promised I'd tell you my story on our second date? I think this counts as a date."

"Sam—" Dean warned.

"Dean, she deserves to know." Sam put the book back into its slot. He looked over at Robin with an ambiguous smile. "I hope you don't have any plans for the rest of the evening, because it's a very long story." He trailed his fingers along the spines of the novel like a caress.

"Hey, long stories are the best ones." Robin's expression of mystified sympathy brightened. "And they're best washed down with loads of sugar. You guys have room for homemade peach pie?"

Sam glanced at Dean and they both chuckled.

"Always," Dean agreed. As Robin turned away to lead the way back into the kitchen, Dean mouthed 'marry her!'

He got a level-ten bitch face in reply. And then a grin.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thud rustle clatterclatter scrape. Rustlerustleclatterclattersc rrraaaapppe. Thud._

Reverberating through a deserted parking garage, these are noises most people move away from. Dean Winchester was not most people.

He moved towards the approaching sounds with cautious confidence. The noises stopped as soon as he eased past the blind corner.

There was no one visible.

He waited. Maybe just a rat, but those weren't rat noises. Running rats were quiet. Stationary rats were usually gnawing on something.

_Thudthudthud scrrraaaapppe. _A flicker of movement near the Thunderbird that squatted on four rotted flats. Curiosity won out over aversion to rodents. Dean crept closer, ready to bolt or stomp.

He laughed instead, and reached down to capture the small furry creature. "Hey there- got yourself in a fix, huh?"

The kitten wriggled in his hold, the plastic cup on its head knocking against his hands as it tried once more to paw it off.

"Here... hold still."

A gentle twist and tug released the kitten's head and a strong scent of vanilla. It panted, its blue-tinged nose and tongue turning pinker with every breath.

"You're down to eight do-overs now, squirt. A few more minutes and you'd be a goner." He glanced around, and seeing no one in sight, Dean lifted the little cat up eye to eye. "Christos!"

The cat blinked at Dean like he'd just sneezed in its face.

Dean shook his head at his own paranoia. "Ok. That's out of the way. What I am gonna do with you? Can't just put you down and walk off. You're lucky you made it this far without getting turned into a grease spot out on the road. Guess you can stay the night. I'll take you to the Shelter tomorrow."

The kitten mewed and settled into his hold as if agreeing to that plan.

"You're getting a bath, though. Pudding makes lousy hair-gel and I don't want you givin' Sam and George fleas." As he pushed the button, he glanced back down at the fluffy little ball in his hand. "I'm talking to a cat... I'm officially a washed-up geezer at thirty-three."

Big blue eyes blinked up at him. The kitten licked clinging pudding off its whiskers. When the elevator doors squeaked open, it hissed and bolted up his jacket sleeve to perch on his shoulder.

Dean left it there for the ride up. "Don't smear that mess on my hair."

The little cat made itself comfortable and purred in his ear.

He opened the apartment door to familiar greetings: the smell of cooking, the jingling of George's tags, and Sam's cheerful "Hey, Dean!" from the kitchen. Everything veered off the comfortable domestic script after that, because instead of jumping up to get his evening ear-scratching, George skidded to a stop and exploded into shrill barking.

Dean yelped and grabbed for the cat as it clawed its way from his shoulder to the top of his head. Sam's cane thumped quickly against the floor, then he leaned against the living room doorway and laughed at them.

"So not funny!" Dean held off the ravening ferocity that was George with the side of his boot and peeled the kitten off his scalp one claw at a time.

Sam was no help. He was losing his breath.

"George, cut it out! Ow! OW! Geez, cat! Sam! A little help here?"

"George," Sam managed to call. Barely.

George ignored him for once and jumped up again as if to rip the kitten out of Dean's hands.

Sam limped over and grabbed the dog. "George! Hush. It's just a kitten."

George subsided in Sam's grip, but he still glared and growled.

Sam grinned at Dean. "Why _do_ you have a kitten on your head?"

"It wasn't there when I came in." Dean held the hissing little scrapper in one hand and swiped at a trickle of blood making its way down his temple with the back of the other. "We have some peroxide?"

"Under the sink in the bathroom," Sam answered. "Ok, why do you have a kitten anywhere on your person? And why does it smell like vanilla?"

"The answer to both questions is a pudding cup," Dean grumbled and closed the bathroom door against George's attempt to elude Sam's grip. "It had its head caught in one, almost suffocated. I figure I'll take it to the Shelter tomorrow, or hey, you could give Robin a call, see if she wants it."

"She might. She was saying today she that she's thinking about adopting another cat."

"Cute kitten like this, with a big bow around its neck? You're gonna score some major points, dude," Dean teased then muttered something that sounded like a mild profanity aimed at a small feline who sunk claws into his flesh again.

"Yeah, sure. Dinner's ready when you are."

George gave one last gruff "woof" to the bathroom door then scurried after Sam.

Sam turned the heat off under the pots. "I wonder where we can put the litter box?"

George flopped spread-eagle onto the linoleum and dropped his head onto his forepaws with a put-upon snort.

-o0o-

When they emerged from the bathroom, Dean had a few scratches on his hands to go with the ones on his head, the kitten smelled like Dial soap instead of vanilla pudding, and both of them were damp around the edges, but they were on good terms again.

Sam snapped his fingers and frowned at the first hint of a growl from George.

"For your information, Cujo, I did check her before I brought her home," Dean told the dog. "She's just a regular kitten, so chill out."

George dropped his head and slunk off into the living room. They settled in at the table, the kitten dined on canned salmon on the seat of the extra chair, and George pouted out of sight for half the meal.

Sam and Dean ignored him as he paced in and out of the kitchen. He was ignoring the cat, and that was good enough for now. About the time Dean was wiping his bread across his plate, George let out one of his 'look at me!' barks.

They both glanced over. George stared at them, a wobbly message laid out in front of him with his letter blocks. BADCATGO

"How is that," Dean pointed to where the kitten was licking her paws, "a bad cat? More like you're being a bad dog."

George huffed and pawed the B, A, and D over onto their picture sides. His way of erasing a word.

Sam hid a chuckle behind his napkin, then told the dog, "Tomorrow, buddy. You can put up with a guest for one night. Be nice."

George flipped all his blocks over to their non-communicative sides. As if he were sneaking up on a coiled rattler, he eased up to the kitten.

She drew up into a fuzzy arch and hissed, tail straight up like an exclamation point.

George didn't read that message. He stuck his nose closer.

She slapped it.

George yelped and shook his head, then tried again.

She yowled and whacked him with a lightning combination like his muzzle was a speed-bag.

George took off, tail between his legs, the kitten in hot pursuit.

Dean almost strangled on his beer. "Dude, your dog's a wuss!"

"Your cat's a menace," Sam shot back, and laughed as George barreled back in and made a flying leap for the security of his lap. "Gah, George! You're gettin' too big for this, boy."

George hooked his forepaws over Sam's shoulders and peered down at the kitten. She considered her empty dish more interesting.

"Where's all that legendary inugami courage now?" Dean teased.

"Maybe he's ailurophobic," Sam shrugged. He set George back on the floor. "Go make friends, you goof."

George gave Sam a look over his shoulder as if Sam had told him to go check out a firing squad. He edged up to the kitten again. She studied him, then rolled over onto her back and waved her paws. George snuffled at her belly.

She wrapped her forepaws around his muzzle and pretended to chew off his nose. George sneezed and hopped back. The kitten bounced towards him, stiff-legged. George woofed and took off again, this time with his tail in a merry curl.

When they made the circle back through the kitchen, George was the chaser. They played tag the rest of the evening.

Sam and Dean found themselves serving mostly as hurdles and speed bumps.

-o0o-

The next morning, Sam caught a glimpse through Dean's half-open bedroom door as he went down the hall. His brother was lounging on his back with a grin, swinging his medallion for the playful kitten perched on his chest. Sam heard Dean's throaty chuckle and an affectionate murmur of "Hey, Puddin', you hungry?"

Sam smiled as he went on into the kitchen to start the coffee. Robin would have to choose a kitten on her own. Puddin' had already claimed her human.

-oOo- **_Finis _**-oOo-

**_Author's note:_**

The inspiration for this fic came from a lovely drawing by Petite-Madame, called "Bad Company."

You can see it on her LiveJournal by searching on the title, or simply by Googling "Bad Company Petite-Madame". Please note, some of her work is Wincest, and may be NSFW depending on your situation and preferences. However, it is all exquisite art and the link will take you to an entirely SFW page on her journal.

This story with images may be seen at my own LiveJournal, which you can find by using my LJ user name: Carole-cc

Thanks for going along on this ride with me, the boys and George- and now Puddin' too!


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